


jawsome

by bibliosexual



Series: Tumblr fic [20]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Getting Together, Jealous Derek, M/M, everything is legal though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 04:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliosexual/pseuds/bibliosexual
Summary: Stiles likes Derek. Derek thinks he’s too old for Stiles. Meanwhile, Stiles is stubborn (and attractive).





	jawsome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mellya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellya/gifts).



> lumenlight (Mellya) prompted me [on tumblr](http://bibliosexxual.tumblr.com/post/156345568081/lumenlight-prompted-me-sterek-au-where-stiles), “Sterek AU where Stiles tries to seduce Derek but Derek has the habit of only dating older people (Jennifer, Kate …). So he says no to Stiles and Stiles is really disappointed but by chance he keeps seeing Derek and with time Derek realizes that he may have made a mistake?”
> 
> Cross-posting this to AO3 has been on my to-do list for a while. Finally it's done! 
> 
> I don't even know what's going on with the title. I had to call it something, basically. In my head this will always be simply "the lumenlight fic."
> 
> Note on the rating: I don’t usually write smut, but I felt like this was that kind of prompt. So... I'd say it's somewhere between an M and an E on the scale.

Stiles usually doesn’t venture as far out of town as the Preserve—there’s not much out here but trees—but today that’s kind of the point. If he’s going to start up a jogging regimen to prep for lacrosse in the fall, he’s sure as hell not going to do it in his own neighborhood, where all his neighbors can (and will) watch him flailing around looking stupid.

He doesn’t actually end up jogging at all, though, because before he finds the trail he’d marked on his map, his Jeep abruptly sputters and dies on him right in the middle of the road. That’s also about when it starts raining.

“Oh, come on,” Stiles groans, hitting his head on the steering wheel a few times.

He pulls out his phone to call someone—his dad, a tow truck, Scott—and there’s no signal. Right. Because he wanted isolated, and he got it.

There’s no sound at all except the drumming of the rain on the roof of the Jeep, coming down harder and harder, taunting him for being such a fucking idiot.

He thinks about waiting it out, but who knows how long that could take, and if he doesn’t make it back home in time for dinner or at least get somewhere where he can make a phone call, then his dad is probably going to think he got eaten by a mountain lion or something.

“Fuck it,” he mutters. He pockets his phone and keys, grits his teeth, and jumps out into the downpour.

*

He has to walk for about twenty minutes before he finds any sign of civilization. It’s a house, or at least part of one. It’s tucked away down a long dirt driveway on the edge of the Preserve and looks sketchy as hell. It’s been burned, badly, and even though it looks like maybe someone’s been fixing it up, it’s still not exactly what Stiles would call _habitable_. Part of the charred roof is caved in, and most of the windows on the second floor are shattered, their jagged glass gleaming ominously in the dim light and the rain.

Stiles would assume it’s abandoned, except that there’s a shiny black Camaro parked out front. That at least looks well cared for.

It’s that detail, plus the rather compelling fact that this is probably the only house for at least a mile and Stiles can feel his feet starting to rub raw in his wet tennis shoes, that finally gives him the courage he needs to squelch his way through the mud and onto the porch to knock on the door.

The guy who answers is scruffy-looking but attractive, with brooding eyebrows and dark hair that’s sticking up all over the place, so messy it almost comes back around to stylish.

He drags his eyes lingeringly, incredulously, down Stiles’ body, and Stiles hastily crosses his arms over his chest. Not that that probably hides much. His white shirt is clinging to him like a second skin, and his waterlogged sweatpants are sagging embarrassingly low on his hips.

“Hey, eyes up here,” Stiles says, just on principle, but having the guy guiltily jerk his head up to look him in the eye is even more unbearable. His eyes are pale and intense and would probably be giving Stiles a boner if he weren’t so freezing cold and wet right now.

Before his sense of self-preservation can catch up, he’s blurting, “Not that— I mean, I would probably let you see me naked if you asked nicely, or even not so nicely, that could also work for me, it’s just— I was actually wondering if I could make a phone call?”

The guy frowns. “Are you on something?”

“On someth—oh. No. I mean, just Adderall, but I’m always on Adderall. I just have no brain-to-mouth filter right now. You’ve fried it.”

The guy rolls his eyes at that but seems to relax a little, stepping back to let him in.

*

The guy, who introduces himself as Derek, sets about getting him some dry clothes while Stiles loiters awkwardly in his living room, dripping water all over his floor.

It’s a surprisingly cozy space, considering what the outside of the house looks like. Sure, the walls and ceiling are blackened with soot and the window is boarded up with plywood, but it at least looks lived in. There’s a rug, a saggy couch of indeterminate color, a couple bookshelves crammed with well-worn paperbacks, and a fire going in the fireplace.

Stiles sits down by the fire and calls his dad. When that’s done, he calls Scott to come pick him up. Scott says he’ll have to finish his shift at the animal clinic first and that Stiles should try to not get murdered in the meantime.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Stiles says, “but feel free to take your time. He’s really fucking hot.”

Scott sighs down the line. “Yeah, no. I’ll be off in like half an hour, bro. Text me if things get weird.”

Stiles is kind of hoping things get weird. In a good way, of course.

*

Derek hands him a stack of clothes and a towel and directs him down a dark hallway to the bathroom. Out of curiosity, Stiles peeks in several rooms on the way. They’re all gutted and blackened, the ceiling crumbling, the plaster peeling from the walls. In one room there’s nothing but a scorched metal chair. It’s more than a little creepy. The bathroom is okay, though. There’s working plumbing, and moss-green tilework in the shower, and what looks like a fresh coat of white paint on the walls.

When Stiles wanders back into the living room, he flops down next to Derek on the couch, and Derek’s eyes drift briefly shut, nostrils flaring like he’s smelling him. It’s kinda weird, but not enough to turn Stiles off.

“Here,” Derek says, and shoves a glass of wine into his hands. “It’ll warm you up.”

“Okay,” Stiles says agreeably. He’s always wanted to try wine, mostly because he’s not supposed to, and that’s always guaranteed to make anything a hundred times more tempting.

Derek looks like he’s not sure what to say next, so Stiles leans back and starts to explain about the Jeep and his aborted jogging plans and his sadly lackluster lacrosse abilities. It’s not until he’s been talking for a while, bundled up in a blanket from Derek’s bed and sipping the wine, wincing a little at the vinegary taste but forging ahead anyway because he’s not a quitter, that Derek finally gets suspicious and thinks to ask Stiles how old he is.

So Stiles sheepishly admits he’s seventeen—but almost eighteen! in just a few weeks, really, pinky swear!—at which point Derek sighs like his entire life is a burden and mutters, “Great, I just gave alcohol to someone who still says ‘pinky swear.’”

That’s nothing compared to how pained he looks when Stiles mentions a few minutes later that his dad is the sheriff.

When Stiles finishes the wine, he sets his glass down on the floor and gets up to look around. He can feel Derek watching him, but Derek doesn’t tell him to stop.

There’s a framed photo on the mantelpiece. It’s the _only_ thing on the mantelpiece. Stiles leans in, sees a large family, two beaming parents amid a small crowd of dark-haired children, all standing proudly in front of a cheery white house in the woods. It takes him a minute to recognize that this is—or rather was—the very house they’re standing in now.

When Stiles asks about it, Derek gets a dark look on his face and just says, “They’re dead,” in this tone that says, _Leave it alone_.

So Stiles sits down again and talks about other stuff, weedles it out of Derek that he’s 23 years old and he’s lived here all his life. He doesn’t have a job. He has a sister, but she moved to Brazil. He does odd jobs around town sometimes, fixing stuff for people, but for the most part he stays here, renovating the house room by room, studying up to get his GED, and living off the insurance money from the fire.

He looks like he’s getting gloomy again thinking about it, so Stiles says, “Thanks for doing this, by the way. It’s pretty much the only nice thing to happen to me in a truly shitty day,” and Derek looks at him a long time, down at his mouth.

Stiles has never kissed anyone, but he _knows_ what that look means, okay. He’s not stupid. He’s also been thinking about this ever since Derek opened the door. He takes a deep breath and leans in.

Before he gets very far, though, Derek has a hand on his chest, pushing him back.

“Um, did you not want—”

“You’re a _child_ ,” Derek snaps, looking like he’s disgusted with himself for even _looking_ at Stiles.

“Am not.” He’s a little buzzed from the wine, and he looks at Derek and _wants_ , and the last thing he feels like is a child. Although, being called a child is definitely a boner-killer.

That’s when Scott knocks on the door, thankfully saving Stiles from any further mortification.

“So, um, thanks again, Derek,” Stiles says when he’s standing beside Scott out on the porch. It’s dark out, and chilly for the end of summer, and the rain has finally lightened to a misty drizzle. “And sorry about you-know-what.”

Scott glances between them, looking confused.

“So…” Stiles says. “See you again soon?”

Derek grunts and closes the door.

“I think that was a yes,” Stiles decides. Scott looks doubtful.

*

Stiles comes back a week later under the excuse that he left his wet clothes in Derek’s dryer. He brings along the clothes he borrowed from Derek, neatly washed and folded. Derek answers the door in nothing but tight jeans and a white tank top, a smear of grey paint on one cheekbone like he’s been working on the house, and Stiles’ mouth goes dry. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen anyone this beautifully muscular in his entire life, except on TV. Derek looks at him like he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking and makes him wait on the porch while he fetches Stiles’ clothes.

The next time, on the first week of school, Stiles drops by with a thank-you gift. It’s not much, just a jar of strawberry jam that his old lady neighbor gave him and Stiles didn’t want to leave in the house as a temptation for his dad. When Stiles holds it out, Derek takes it as hesitantly as if it were a bomb, which is kind of hilarious. Stiles suspects Derek doesn’t get a lot of gifts.

Derek invites him inside the time after that, albeit just for a few minutes. He pours Stiles a mug of tea and shows him the progress he’s made on the kitchen. Stiles makes sure to ask a lot of questions and drink his tea as slowly as humanly possible.

The next time, Stiles shows up late at night. He’s in such a good mood that at first Derek clearly thinks he’s drunk. Stiles has glitter all over his face and across his collarbone. He’s wearing a party hat, and he sways into Derek’s space and informs him he’s eighteen now. It’s his birthday. He tries to look alluring. He wore his tightest T-shirt and everything.

Derek is looking at him like he’s definitely noticed the T-shirt, but he keeps his distance anyway. “Eighteen’s not that much different than seventeen, Stiles.”

“Uh, legally it is.”

Derek scowls. “I don’t care. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m still six years older than you are. You’re in _high school_.”

“Not for much longer,” Stiles points out. He searches Derek’s face, but Derek isn’t giving much away. “Listen, tell me to buzz off and I will. I don’t want to, like, harass you or anything.”

Derek purses his lips and doesn’t say anything, so Stiles takes a risk and steps a little closer, until he can reach out and take Derek’s hand. Derek doesn’t pull away. “What if we were the same age? Would you like me then?”

Instead of a real answer, Derek looks at him for a long moment, unreadable, and says, “Good night, Stiles. Happy birthday.”

He gives Stiles a kiss on the cheek before Stiles has time to blink, let alone process what’s happening, and then he closes the door in his face.

So romance is probably out. Except in Stiles’ fantasies, of course, where it is still very much alive.

But… Derek doesn’t tell him not to come over again, and Stiles’ new jogging route conveniently goes right past Derek’s creepy half-burned house, so it’s easy enough to stop by on weekends or after school, whenever he has a few hours to kill.

Derek is almost always home when Stiles shows up; it’s like he has some kind of sixth sense for when Stiles is nearby. They hang out sometimes. They play chess. Stiles brings his backpack with him and lounges around on Derek’s saggy but surprisingly comfortable couch, reading _Macbeth_ and writing college admission essays and quizzing Derek for the GED. He helps Derek fix up his house; he doesn’t know much about handyman-type stuff, but he can at least roll paint on a wall. He also makes a lot of corny innuendos at every opportunity. Derek just rolls his eyes and smiles.

If he stays late enough, Stiles orders take-out. He has a pretty good idea of Derek’s tastes by now. Not to mention, he always gets a kick out of seeing how twitchy it makes the delivery person to come near Derek’s house.

One evening in late October, Stiles shows up just because he can’t bear to be at home, not tonight. Derek doesn’t ask him what’s wrong, but he does offer Stiles a root beer, one of the ones in a glass bottle, not a can, and while they’re sitting side-by-side on Derek’s back stoop, sipping their sodas and looking into the woods, Stiles tells him it’s the anniversary of his mom’s death, and Derek says, haltingly, that Stiles can always come here if he needs to get away. Stiles had already pretty much figured that out, but it’s still nice to hear Derek say it.

After a while, Stiles starts talking about his mom, not how she died or anything but just what she was like and all the things Stiles loved about her, and Derek listens. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. Stiles knows he gets it. By this point Stiles has googled Derek. He’s found the articles about the fire, and even though they don’t come right out and say anything about the link between Derek and the arsonist, Stiles can read behind the lines. He’s figured out why Derek is so touchy about the age difference.

It’s almost completely dark out when Stiles runs out of things to say. He scoots a little closer and rests his head on Derek’s shoulder. Derek goes tense beneath him, but after a minute or so, he carefully relaxes into it, resting his head against Stiles’. They don’t say anything after that, but Stiles leaves feeling a lot lighter.

About a month later, Stiles is at the diner with Erica one afternoon, working through some headache-inducing pre-calc problems together, when _Derek_ of all people walks in. Stiles almost pokes himself in the eye with the straw of his milkshake in shock. Derek almost never ventures into civilization, at least not that Stiles has seen, and yet here he is, stepping up to the counter and gruffly ordering a burger.

Stiles is pretty sure Derek knows they’re there, but he keeps his back to them the whole time. As soon as he gets his burger, he slaps down a few crumpled dollars and storms out without so much as a glance in their direction. Oh well. Tomorrow’s Saturday; Stiles will see him then.

When Stiles does come by Derek’s house, it’s later than he’d planned and he’s a bit distracted, still thinking about those math problems and some stuff he was reading earlier on Wikipedia and what he’s going to get his dad for his birthday.

While he thinks, he makes himself at home fixing himself a sandwich in Derek’s kitchen. He missed lunch and now he’s hungry enough to eat Derek’s food, even if all Derek has is this gross artisanal multigrain gourmet whatever-the-fuck bread that Stiles hates. He’s not really looking at Derek, he’s rooting around for lettuce and tomatoes in Derek’s fridge, and as he kicks the fridge door shut with his foot he calls, “Oh, so hey, I totally saw you at the diner yesterday, dude.”

He’s about to launch right into teasing Derek about how that must’ve been his quota of social interaction for the week or something, but he changes his mind when he actually sees Derek. He’s clearly in a rotten mood, hands clenched into fists at his sides and jaw set, pacing. Stiles is pretty sure he hasn’t been listening to a word Stiles has been saying.

“Are you mad at me?” Stiles asks abruptly, incredulously.

“No,” Derek says, unconvincingly.

“Wow, okay. What did I even do? Is this because I’m eating your gross bread?”

“No, you can eat whatever you want. It’s just—” Derek glares daggers at the floor by Stiles’ feet. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he’s pacing again, coming out with, “It’s nothing. I saw you with— and I know I don’t have any right to be, or, to feel— I shouldn’t be—”

Stiles is confused. It would help immensely if Derek could just finish a sentence. “You saw me with who? With Erica?”

“I don’t know,” Derek bites out. “That girl. You were on a date.”

“A date? With _Erica_?” Stiles bursts out laughing, but then he sobers up pretty fast when he puts all the pieces together. “Wait. Are you _jealous_ right now?”

Derek goes very still. “ _No_.” His neck is flushing pink. So are his ears. He’s looking resolutely somewhere over Stiles’ shoulder instead of meeting his eye. “You should be dating people your own—”

Stiles drops his armful of sandwich toppings on the counter and backs Derek against the wall. Derek doesn’t resist, exactly, but he looks adorably conflicted, like he’s internally scolding himself for this moment of weakness or something.

“Okay, first of all,” Stiles says, leaning in close, “do _not_ say I should be dating people my own age. Because you _know_ how I feel, Derek. I know you know. And second of all…” He takes a deep breath. Under his hands, he can feel how warm Derek is, how solid. How he’s barely breathing at all, but his heart is racing. “Don’t kill me for this.”

Stiles kisses him.

Well, not really kisses—more like screws his eyes shut and presses his mouth against Derek’s and waits, his pulse pounding in his ears.

At first Derek doesn’t move at all, and Stiles thinks he’s never going to be able to look Derek in the eye ever again. It’s definitely one of the most awkward and terrifying moments of his entire life. _Then_. Then Derek groans and gives in, mouth opening under Stiles’, hands coming up to curl around Stiles’ waist and tug him in closer, and Stiles forgets about anything that’s not this.

Stiles might not know what the hell he’s doing, but Derek definitely does, and it’s whiting out Stiles’ brain a little.

Derek fists his hands in Stiles’ Jawsome shirt and twists so _Stiles_ is the one up against the wall, pinning him there and kissing him harder, biting and frustrated and a little uncoordinated and entirely amazing, and Stiles _moans_.

Derek jerks his head back. He looks like he can’t believe that noise just came out of Stiles’ mouth. Stiles can’t believe it, either, honestly, but right now he’s too turned on to be embarrassed.

He tilts his chin up instead and raises his eyebrows, and just like that Derek’s on him again, frantic, tugging Stiles’ head back by his hair to suck on his throat and sliding his hands under Stiles’ thighs and picking him up like he weighs _nothing_. Stiles has barely caught up with the program enough to get out a shaky “Yeahh,” and wrap his legs around Derek’s waist before Derek is walking them across the room and dumping him on the kitchen table and climbing on top of him. It’s horrifically uncomfortable, and Stiles 100% does not care, not when Derek is muttering, “I can’t believe I’m attracted to you even in this fucking shirt,” and wrestling it over Stiles’ head, then diving back down to kiss him some more.

“Mmm,” Stiles says, intelligently. He’s too busy grabbing Derek’s ass and pressing himself up against Derek, pulling him down on top of him and rolling his hips up against Derek’s, to think about words. This is actually _happening_ , holy shit, finally.

Derek’s hands are everywhere, dragging hot down Stiles’ sides and over his chest, his neck, cupping his jaw, tangling in Stiles’ hair, and through their jeans Stiles can feel just how into this Derek is. It shoots a hot thrill down his spine, and he jolts his hips up, once, twice, groaning at how good it feels, chasing the feeling. It’s tantalizing, intense and frantic and almost enough but not, not quite—

Derek tugs on his hair, hard, and oh. Just like that Stiles bites down on Derek’s neck and comes, back arching, hips grinding hard against Derek’s, shuddering.

“Fuck,” Derek breathes, drawing back. For a second they just stare at each other, shocked, panting. Derek’s eyes are almost all pupil.

Stiles blinks up at him, shifting his hips a little, hazy with little aftershocks of pleasure. “So… wow. That happened.”

Instead of replying, Derek groans and ducks back down, kissing him so thoroughly he can barely _think_.

It’s not until Derek pulls off to bury his face in Stiles’ neck, breath hot on Stiles’ skin, that he realizes just what Derek’s doing, propped over him on one elbow. He’s jerking off, making these little bitten-off noises high in the back of his throat, a hand shoved down his pants.

Stiles reaches up to palm the nape of Derek’s neck and Derek comes, gasping, all over his hand and Stiles’ stomach. _Gross_. (Except not really.)

There’s a moment of not-uncomfortable silence where Derek just kind of slumps down on top of him while Stiles stares at the ceiling and wonders if it still counts as a devirginalizing even if Derek never technically touched his dick. God, he hopes so.

“Uh, I guess we got kind of carried away?” Stiles ventures after a minute.

Derek groans and presses his sweaty face to Stiles’ bare chest instead of answering. His stubble kind of tickles against Stiles’ skin.

Stiles squirms a little. “Derek? You alive down there?”

“I really like you,” Derek mutters. He says it like there’s a silent _unfortunately_ tacked on the end. “Sorry.”

Stiles almost laughs at that. Only Derek would apologize for being into him. “Uh, have you been paying attention at all? I _want_ you to really like me, dude.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Not your call.”

Derek doesn’t say anything to that.

“Are you still beating yourself up about the age difference? Because I seriously don’t care about that.”

Derek shrugs and lifts his head a little. The stubble on his chin scrapes Stiles’ nipple, which feels… interesting. “I’m not thrilled about it, but I’ve realized it doesn’t bother me as much as seeing you on a date with someone else.”

Stiles grins. “Possessive much?”

“Yes,” Derek says simply. He looks Stiles in the eye, finally, and the heat Stiles sees there makes him shiver a little. Derek looks away. “I shouldn’t be, though. I should leave you alone. My life is going nowhere. I’m a dead end for you. It wouldn’t work out.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m not proposing marriage here or anything. We don’t have to decide the whole course of our relationship right this instant just because we had sex. Ish.” Derek snorts. “But why can’t we at least try this? I just want to be with you.” He gets a hand in Derek’s hair, scratching lightly, and Derek’s eyes flutter. “And I happen to think you’re not a dead end. You’re just, I dunno, rebuilding your life right now. But even if all you want to do is keep being a hermit out here, I like spending time with you. I want to keep getting to know you. I’d just like it even more if that included cuddling and makeouts and other… stuff.” He lifts his hips a little for emphasis. “All I’m saying is, we should try it and see where it goes.”

Derek looks at him for a long moment, obviously thinking this over.

Stiles waggles his eyebrows at him and starts humming the Jeopardy theme song.

Derek shakes his head fondly. “You never give up, do you?”

“Nope,” Stiles says cheerfully, and Derek crawls up over him and kisses him softly, once, twice, lingering.

“Alright,” he says. “I’m in.”

Stiles fist-pumps. Victory.


End file.
